


Wheelin' and Dealin'

by rainer76



Category: Fringe
Genre: Brown Betty 'verse, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-09
Updated: 2012-01-09
Packaged: 2017-10-29 06:28:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/316750
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rainer76/pseuds/rainer76
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Broyles flicks his collar against the chill, the brief flare of a match warming his fingertips. His dancing shoes are slick with wet, the puddles at his feet a reflected one-two jab of red and blue light.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wheelin' and Dealin'

The rain hits the earth like fallen nails, a clang and batter against the pavement. Broyles flicks his collar against the chill, the brief flare of a match warming his fingertips. His dancing shoes are slick with wet, the puddles at his feet a reflected one-two jab of red and blue light. He breathes out and watches as Nina approaches, moving past his patrol car and entering the pedestrian tunnel. Sharp doesn’t hustle, her steps short, powered, never rushed, as if the rain wouldn’t dare dampen her over-priced suits and leather shoes.

“Phillip, I wasn’t expecting to hear from you so soon.” He’s seen corpses three days dead with more colour than Nina Sharp, black on black, gloves running the length of her forearm, face floating above the entire package like a disembodied ghost. Her concern’s as honest as a politician making the rounds on an election campaign. “I trust you’re in good health, my friend?”

The tunnel backchats. A forlorn murmur of _friends…rends…ends_ … 

And don’t it know the truth.

“Doll,” he drawls. “We need to speak.”

He’ll make Lieutenant one day. Not mired in the beat, dragging in hobo’s, the disenfranchised, the nightly routine of aggravated domestics capped by booze. He’s got a wife and kid to think about; he’s got a new rookie partner with an acre of thigh, fire in her gullet, and a gift for noticing all the wrong, all the right, details.

Her mouth parts, lipstick fire engine red.  “I gathered as much when you summoned me.” There’s disapproval in her voice. People don’t _summon_ Nina Sharp, no one but Phillip would have the gall to try. That she came at all is surprising.  Her nails are short, sharp; the colour the same hellfire as her lips, he knows the purgatory of her kiss, the lingering echo of her caress. Sharp’s all about the angles, playing them, cutting them, dragging her nails across his jaw, then sweeping upward to his brow. She tilts his hat rakishly.  “I was at the opera, Phillip, this better be important.”

She exudes entitlement, wealth, the same way a homeless man reeks of urine.

“McKinski’s murder,” Broyles says bluntly. He thinks about the changes he’ll make when he’s climbed the ladder. He thinks about the spare time he’ll have, stored up for Diane and Chris.

“Ah.” Nina’s eyes brighten. “I understood George Pauren was the chief suspect.”

It doesn’t sound like a question when she says it.

“Ain’t that a stroke of convenience.” He pulls back on his cigarette.  The smoke curls in his lungs, warming him through before he exhales.“The Cap’s organised a warrant. We’re raiding his apartment tomorrow.” She looks pleased, her mouth a moue of satisfaction. “My partner thinks we’re looking in the wrong direction. Dunham thinks the evidence is circumstantial. She thinks, maybe, Pauren’s innocent.”

“Innocence is such a relative term.” Nina turns until she’s standing shoulder to shoulder with him, staring out at the darkness, at the rain pissing down. It’s a black hole night, then it’s red and blue and then a black hole night. He can count his heartbeat to the flashes of police light. Somewhere nearby, a converted speakeasy trumpets Louis Armstrong into the night, big band swing and a cacophony of drums like rolling thunder. “Can she prove it’s _not_ Pauren?”

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were concerned, Nina.” He flips the ash from his cigarette. “But we both know that’s never true.”

“Bitter, Phillip?”

“Only for you, doll.”

“I understand Captain Renshall is retiring soon, fortune is recognising opportunity, and I am a well connected woman.”

It’s why Broyles’ is here, why his stomach is churning with bile. “McKinski’s was selling Massive Dynamic secrets to the highest bidder. Or didn’t you think I’d uncover the little detail? Olivia seems to think motive, net gain, lies solely with your company.”

“Your investigative abilities aren’t in question, Phillip. They never were.”

“And George Pauren, genius IQ, patents on half a dozen discoveries, he’s about to start employment at Biotech, quite the coup for your competitor.”

Her smile hasn’t changed, there’s absolutely no tension in Nina’s frame. “And yet, instead of setting your hellcat onto me to _probe_ for further answers, here we are, you and I.”

“Here we are.”

“Charming as this is, Phillip, let me be blunt: what do you want?”

“Promotion, job security. You don’t want Olivia Dunham sniffing through your affairs.”

“This Ms. Dunham sounds intriguing,” Nina corrects, as if meeting Olivia in person is something she wants very much. “And in return, what do  _I_ get?”

“Evidence strong enough to convict George Pauren.”

“Selling a good man down the river?”

The beat changes from Armstrong to Miller. 

Broyles tips his head upward, staring at the tiles on the ceiling. “I like the classics.”

Nina leans forward and kisses his throat, teeth a sharp drag against his Adam’s apple, mouth widening. It’s uncomfortable, like being held in the jaws of a wolf, and something ages old rebels. He swallows convulsively until Nina withdraws. “I’ll bring you to the opera next time, Phillip,” she whispers. "You might appreciate _Le Veau d'or_."

A limousine pulls into the street, lights dimmed. Nina turns on her heel and slips into the waiting car. Broyles stares after her, utterly thrown, at a loss. He takes two steps out of the tunnel where the wind cuts him to the bone, and barely stops himself from cold-cocking a stranger as he melts out of the shadows. “Officer Broyles?” He’s bald, whiter than white.

Phillip’s balanced on the balls of his feet, old boxing habits rolling his shoulders forward, his chin protectively low. “Yeah?”

“Ms Sharp said you would know what to do with this.” It’s a package, wrapped in brown paper and industrial twine. The ghost tilts his head, voice pitched high. “When you place it in the apartment, do not to get your fingerprints on the evidence, or allow your partner to see.”

Diane, Broyles reminds himself, a Lieutenant’s wage, coming home each night, raising Chris right. He tries not to think about how Nina came to the meeting prepared, with the ‘evidence’ at hand, as if all of Broyles’ moves and countermoves had been published in the daily news. “Scat.”

The ghost complies, melts into the shadows as if never there, his feet muted by the rain. Broyles’ swings the door open, drops the package in the passenger seat and slides into his police cruiser, his body chilled through.

**Author's Note:**

> Quick (and dodgy) attempt at film noir. Le veau d'or was sung by Mephistopheles in Act II of Faust.


End file.
